Roses in the Tempest

by Jeri Westerson

  “Stop, Thomas!”

  “Or hanged, struggling, choking on knotted rope, your bowels emptying on the scaffold. Is that what you want?”

  “Oh God, help us!” she cried, crumpling to the ground.

  My heart seized within me, and I, too, fell, grasping and rocking her, laying my head against hers.

  “Hush, sweeting, hush. I will never let them take you. Never.”

  She wept. I held her a long time, relishing her weight against me, inhaling the scent of meadow clinging to her worn wool gown.

  At last I used all my courage to release her, helping her to her feet. But I could not resist wiping her tears away with my fingers.

  She lifted her head. Her eyes were reddened but just as bold as before. “You said so yourself. Thomas More would not take the oath.”

  “Dammit, woman! You are not Thomas More! You are just a woman, and no one will rise up at your death… No one except me.”

  Her hazel eyes searched mine. “Have you taken the oath?”

  I nodded briskly, shame spotting my cheeks. “Yes. I did. I spoke it loud.”

  “Why, Thomas? How?”

  “Because I am loyal to the king, and I believe this madness will pass. But while it rides this wave, those of us loyal to the true Church must survive. If we are all gone, who will restore it when this time is done?”

  “But the king’s heirs. When the king’s wife delivers up another child, surely that child will be raised in heresy.”

  “It may be so…but there is the Princess Mary.”

  “But you yourself have said that she was declared a bastard.”

  “Other bastards were considered for the throne before this one. And much can happen between now and that time.”

  “It is madness, Thomas.”

  “It is all madness.” Standing before her with a softened expression, I gently lifted her chin with a finger. “That is why clear heads must remain on their shoulders. The king likes the Giffards,” I assured, and let her chin go. “As you show by example, so, too, shall I by mine. The Catholic Church is the Church, and His Majesty shall know it by my actions. Were I in prison, it would mean nothing to him.”

  “Thomas, I am frightened.”

  “Do not fear. God is with us.” We fell silent, listening to the breeze rustle through the fields, and goats braying softly on the wind. “I will teach you the oath. You must find a way to swear it.”

  She shook her stubborn head again. “I cannot. How can I be God’s servant and deny that which I know is true?”

  “Then lie.”

  “Thomas!”

  “Lie, Isabella. All of your sisters must lie for their own sakes. They will execute you if you do not.”

  “I cannot deny my faith.”

  “Then we will find a way to satisfy both. In your heart, you can reason a solution to all they ask you.”

  She raised her head, eyes shadowed under her veil. “When I stand before God, how shall I answer Him? Shall I save my life only to lose it?”

  “Promise me, Isabella. Swear on the cross you will take the oath.”

  “Thomas! No!”

  I dug into my doublet, ripping buttons from their threads. I pulled forth the silver crucifix and plunged it into her dirty hands. I closed my hand painfully over hers. “Swear, Isabella! Swear!”

  Desperately she tried wrenching her hand free. She grimaced at my harsh strength, even as I surely impressed the figure of Christ into the flesh of her palm. Futilely she struggled, until my vigor wearied her and she surrendered with a weakened, “I…I…swear, Thomas. I…promise.” Satisfied, I released her, pulling the cross from the imprisonment of her hand. “Why did you do that?” she accused. I cringed under the assault of those eyes, burning with rancor.

  “I will not let you die, you stubborn woman. There are better ways to fight them than martyrdom.”

  “I am weak,” she lamented, her whole body sagging. “I could have refused you.”

  “They need you. Your nuns. You. Do not desert them. Guide them.”

  “How?”

  “I will show you. Will you trust me?”

  Her tender words rose gently from her whitened lips. “With my life.”

  “And always,” I said as tenderly, “my heart is likewise in your hands.”

  ISABELLA LAUNDER

  NOVEMBER, 1534

  Blackladies, Brewood

  XXIII

  I will speak openly your decrees without fear even before kings.

  –Psalm 119:46

  Vespers was done, and I should have risen to lead my sisters to the hall and to a well-earned supper, but I could not make my legs move. Thomas had left soon after he made a disgrace of me, and I went to the chapel to pray until the office, to ask forgiveness for succumbing to his insistent pleas.

  Were it any other man, would I have succumbed so easily?

  The sisters were patient and did not stir. I sat, merely looking at their feet from across the narrow aisle. Frayed shoes, frayed hems, frayed women. The four of us, so small amid the larger world. What harm could we do with our aging faces and scratchy voices? Who were we, but women, nuns? We were so small and so poor a house that we needed monthly stipends from the Giffards to put enough food upon our tables. How often did we go to bed with bellies growling in order to feed our dear servants, whose features showed their weariness but whose voices were silent on it?

  Men went into battle to die for the king. Who would battle for our like?

  The time passed, and still I did not rise. They shuffled, stifling a cough behind a hand in case I was asleep and needed a gentle reminder. But I raised my head to show I was fully awake before breaking the silence of the chapel and of the sanctity of our office. “My sisters. I cannot lead you to your supper. Not yet. Not when my heart is so heavy.”

  Their solemn faces, like brushstrokes of white upon the swath of black that was their veils, awaited my explanation. And what was I to say to them? Was I to say, “Come sisters, it is time to toss away your vows. You must lay your hand upon the precious word of God…and lie”?

  “Thomas Giffard was here today,” I announced unnecessarily. “He brought very grave tidings. Soon, the king’s commissioners will come to exact the oath of succession from each of us.”

  “What is this oath?” asked Alice. “Did he tell you?”

  “Yes. I wrote it down.” From within my scapular, I brought forth the wrinkled page. I unfolded it and smoothed it out upon my lap. “It is in four parts. With our hand upon a Bible, they will ask us each in turn.” I squinted at the page in the dim candlelight. “‘Do you acknowledge our gracious sovereign as supreme head on earth of the Church in England?’“

  I glanced up from the paper to study their faces. Cristabell’s was stony, while Alice twisted her lower lip between her teeth. Felicia raised a brow, but listened attentively. I cleared my throat and began again. “‘Do you allow the bishop of Rome, or any of his servants, to have any authority over you?’“

  This time, Dame Felicia’s scoffing irritation rumbled up from her throat, but I read on. “‘Do you acknowledge the legality of our sovereign’s marriage to Queen Anne?’“

  “Ha!”

  I looked up for only a moment to acknowledge Dame Felicia’s brief commentary. She remained silent, her eyes fixed upon me.

  “‘Do you acknowledge the annulment of our sovereign’s former union with the Lady Catherine…and the illegitimacy of its issue?’“

  For a moment longer, I stared at my own scrawl on that hurried document before lowering it. “Sisters,” I said, crushing the paper in my curled fingers. “This is the oath we will be asked to swear.”

  Cristabell threw back her head and noisily huffed her annoyance into the musty air. “How can we swear this oath?”

  I could not look at her, so fearful was I that she could turn my course. But I had promised Thomas on the body of our precious Lord…

  “If you do not swear it, it shall be considered treason and Lord Giffard assured me th
at you will hang or burn. He said that others have already done so.” I folded my hands in my lap. “I will not order any one of you to swear it or not.”

  “What of the bishop?” asked Cristabell. “Will he not stop this?”

  “The bishop can do nothing.”

  Alice raised trembling fingers to her cheeks, searching from face to face. “If the bishop has no power…then what if it is true? Perhaps we have been in error…”

  “Do not be a fool, Alice,” rasped Cristabell. She made a careless gesture with her hand in the air. No doubt she would rather have slapped Alice.

  Felicia, thoughtful in her silence, offered at last, “I think we should make a decision and all abide by it.”

  “Stand together?” I asked, hopefully.

  “Yes,” she answered with a firm nod. “Or die together.”

  “I do not want to die!” cried Alice jumping to her feet.

  “Hush, Alice.” I moved to her and engulfed her in my arms, much as Thomas did for me. “None of us wants to die before our time. But to die for our faith…that is another matter.”

  Cristabell stared at me with her small, determined eyes, eyes that before had always glared at me with suspicion, but now looked with ill-deserved confidence. “What should we do, Prioress?”

  Courage fading, I shook my head. “I know not. If the king—surely anointed by God—decides on this course, then who are we to dispute it?”

  “The king is not the head of the Church,” snorted Cristabell. “The pope is the head of the Church.”

  “The bishop of Rome, Cristabell. Say no other title.” I stared thoughtfully a long moment at the crumpled paper betwixt my fingers. “Though let us consider,” I said slowly, thoughtfully. “The king rules all in this land. It is he who chooses his archbishops and gives land to monasteries. He was so called the defender of the faith at one time.”

  “He is a heretic,” Cristabell said.

  “If we cannot agree…”

  Felicia sat forward. “What will you do, Prioress?”

  “I…I have made a promise that I will swear the oath.” I lowered my face, crushing my lip so hard with my teeth that I tasted the flavor of steely blood on my tongue. “I know not whether God wishes me to die for this or to take up the quiet struggle in humility and modesty.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I positioned myself forward, and without realizing it, the others did so, too, listening deeply to my conspiratorial tones. “If we took the oath, we would live and remain reminders of that power which is greater even than kings. We would be living proof of God’s Church on earth through the passion of Christ. To see us, would be to envision Rome.”

  “I will abide by your say so, Prioress.” I glanced at Cristabell, so sober, so confident. Too few years ago she would have happily seen me burn.

  “S’trooth!” cried Felicia in her full-breathed gasp. “I will take this oath, and any other to keep the king’s men off our backs!”

  “Dame,” I said, attempting to quiet her ardor. “Do you take your oaths so lightly? Men have died in consequence of keeping their conscience.”

  “If a choice is offered, Lady Prioress, I would keep my head, for a poor trophy it would be to the king. As for me, I will take the oath…if it be your will that we do so.”

  I looked to the others and they, too, nodded in agreement. I took courage from them, though my fists knotted tightly to the point of aching. “Then this is what we will do. The oath is the fiery furnace of Daniel, and we will walk through it unscathed. It is not that we must agree to that which we swear, but merely abide by it. We will swear to our king our loyalty, for indeed, as good English nuns, we do belong as subjects to him.”

  “I hope Cromwell himself comes,” boomed Dame Felicia. “I will have an oath to give him!”

  I chuckled with frightened giddiness. “Would that we all possessed Dame Felicia’s courage!”

  “Courage, Madam? I am scared half out of my wits! But I do not fear with you as our general.”

  “God is our general,” I kindly corrected.

  “Then you are His lieutenant. I can march proudly behind so appointed a soldier.”

  An unlikely soldier, I thought. But now the only one they had.

  THOMAS GIFFARD

  JULY, 1535

  Hampton Court

  XXIV

  “There can be no better way to beat the King’s authority into the heads

  of the rude people of the North than to show them that the King

  intends reformation and correction of religion…”

  –Thomas Cromwell, 1535-6

  With lips straight as a line and shut as tightly as a castle’s keep, I watched my fellow courtier’s comport on the dancing floor. Velvet gowns trimmed in fox fur and ermine spun with each turn, each step. Bejeweled hands grasped other bejeweled hands, their gold and precious stones glittering under flickering fireglow. The air smelled of ginger and mace, late of the cakes and dainties consumed and left in crumbling debris on the long tables in the banqueting hall. We feasted, did England’s nobles…even as Thomas More’s head moldered on a pike on London Bridge.

  “You do not dance today, Lord Giffard?”

  The voice startled me and I hoped he did not notice, but there was very little that escaped our vicar general and chancellor Thomas Cromwell. When I turned, there was a slight glimmer in his squinted eyes, while a tortured smile lifted one corner of his mouth. The man who prosecuted the late Thomas More. No, he missed nothing. “I took a fall from my horse last week, my lord, and I find my leg still aches me.”

  “Then sit, my lord. Sit, and we shall spend our lonely time in conversation.”

  He beckoned me to a chair, and though I was loath to sit with him, in truth, my leg did ache and I longed to rest it. I sat beside him and took the wine cup he offered me.

  “Now this is better, is it not? I do not myself cavort in dances. His Majesty outshines us all, at any rate.”

  “Indeed,” I answered, lifting my cup in salute to the king.

  Cromwell held his cup but he did not drink from it. Either this was his way to keep his head clear while others quaffed and loosened their tongues…or he feared it might be poisoned. I drank nonetheless. The room was hot, my leg ached me, and I felt tired of running from that which was inevitable. I was pleased, though, that as I drank, I found the wine to be excellent, without the taint from any vicious liquor.

  “You have been at court all your life, have you not, Lord Giffard?”

  My gaze steadied on his. He was a commoner, and there were many who made it plain to him that he would always be so in their eyes—though this was done before he rose out of Wolsey’s shadow and grew to be both the king’s lap dog and advisor. I wondered, as I looked into those empty eyes, if I ever treated him ill. It was too late now, at any rate. “Yes, my lord. The Giffards have always been at the English court, to the best of my knowledge.”

  “I do not dispute it. A fine house is the house of Giffard. A strong line. With sons?” he queried, an eyebrow disappearing under the dark cap he was fond of wearing.

  “Yes, my lord. Two sons at the moment. And a beautiful daughter.”

  “Ah, a family. Looking to you to teach them what is right, to love their king and their God.”

  “Not necessarily in that order.”

  “Ho! You jest with me, Lord Thomas. May I call you so? It seems I have known you a long time, but seldom have we conversed.”

  “No, my lord. To my regret.”

  “To your regret.” He laughed, raising his cup, yet still he did not drink from it. “You need not use such fawning language with me, Lord Thomas,” he said quietly. “I know I am not liked at court. A commoner who rose in the ranks and who now holds offices even above…say, you…for instance.”

  Eyeing the “s” chain of the office of chancellor lying across his chest, I nodded in acknowledgment, all the while trying to keep my face and my tone neutral. I tipped my cup again. The wine had a sour aftertaste. “Then
why so anxious to talk with a nobody such as myself?”

  He laughed again, and for a horrific moment, I thought he might slap me on the back like fellows in a tavern. I was relieved when he did not. “You are not a ‘nobody’, Lord Thomas. You are a man with many holdings, as is your father. A man who keeps significant holdings in this realm can hardly be termed a nobody.” He snorted and turned again to the dancers, who at last bowed to one another when the music came to an end in its last strains. But a new song was taken up, and His Majesty called for another dance with Queen Ann, who had worn a sour countenance all evening.

  “The queen dances tonight,” he said casually, but I was on my guard, aware Cromwell never made a casual utterance.

  “Should she not? She and the king always enjoyed such jovial dancing.”

  “It is said she is with child again. If I were she, I would take to my bed. But I suppose she fears the king will still dance…with another.”

  Impatient, I set the goblet down. “My lord—”

  “You took the oath, did you not?”

  I swallowed a raw lump, wishing the goblet were full again. Cromwell sensed my discomfort, for it was, after all, by his design, and he picked up the jug to pour me more. His brow rose again, though his squinted pig-eyes grew no larger.

  “You know I did, my lord,” I said. “Else I would not be sitting here beside you now.”

  “You are a great patron, nonetheless, of abbeys and such religious houses.”

  “Is it unlawful to donate to poor houses that do the work of God?”

  “But so many do not do the work of God, as you call it. So many abuse what is given them. Ah!” He interrupted himself to welcome another man who made his way through the throng, a man who looked to be as common as Cromwell but decked himself as if he were the noblest of gentlemen. Though if gentleman he were, it was a recent provision. “Lord Thomas, have you met my secretary Thomas Legh?”

  He looked familiar to me, as all of Cromwell’s cronies somehow did, with their obsequious demeanors and overzealousness in dress. Legh bowed and sat beside me without a by-your-leave. “We have met, my Lord Cromwell,” he said more to me than to him, though I could not remember such an encounter. He was small and corpulent, the fur on his gown’s collar so thick it reached to his ears. Several gold chains hung over his gown and each of his fingers sported at least two rings. “We met some years ago, and you brushed me off as a dog brushes off a flea.”